


W A S T E L A N D

by Sheena_Stalwart



Category: Actor RPF, British Actor RPF, tom holland - Fandom
Genre: F/M, Smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-21
Updated: 2018-04-25
Packaged: 2019-04-05 14:35:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14046405
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sheena_Stalwart/pseuds/Sheena_Stalwart
Summary: Set in a post-apocalyptic western town. Y/N entertains a mysterious drifter (Tom Holland) when he stumbles into a bar in pursuit of a well-known gang. Y/N and Tom both have their respective reasons for wanting to eliminate the gang but can they trust each other enough to team up for revenge? Find out.(Influences: Mad Max:  Fury Road, Blood Meridian, Westworld, Avenged Sevenfold, Danger Days:  True Lives of the Fabulous Killjoys, William Control, and more!)





	1. The Drifter and the Sacred Cow

You spin a glass around a cloth in your hand. The midday lull. Every Ranger and Dame safe inside a building, waiting for the peak scorching hours to pass. Not even the Skrimmers would dare stay out in this sun.   
You look to your left- outside of a half-melted window- the horizon is blurry with heat. Every day you expect to see something different- yet every day it’s the same; saturated blue sky interrupted by red clay sand. Risky’s Saloon and Lounge is the last stop in town. Not another soul in that direction for at least 100 miles.   
Most of the trixies are upstairs sleeping the heat away. The two youngest sit slumped in the arm chairs of the bar hogging all the cool air from the battery powered fan.   
Hog and Shady Mike napped face first on separate cocktail tables. They both work the night shift guarding the cattle. Poor souls would rather sleep with a whisky in their hand than without.   
Picking up the next glass you stare back out the window. A black dot appears where the sky meets the sand. You blink hard. Refocusing your eyes- it’s still there. You walk up to the window- there must be a speck of something. As you approach, you realize that it’s definitely not a smudge on the glass… it’s something outside.   
The black mark grows larger. Someone or something is approaching. You watch curiously.   
It’s a biker. Dark grey smoke plumes from the tailpipe. Sand splays from the tires. It’s much too hot to be out riding in this weather. The biker is in a slumped position leaning on the handle bars. To be out in this weather is to flirt with death.   
Then you notice the rider’s helmet. Black with a silver skull. The mark of a Skrimmer! You gasp and run back behind the counter of the bar. The two trixies pick their heads up and look at you curiously. You motion for them to run upstairs and they leap to their feet without giving a second thought. You put the glass on the table and throw down three more glasses filling them all to the brim with a pitcher of cold water. You rummage quickly through drawers looking for a glock. Skrimmers are almost never without a pack. But even just one of them can cause enough trouble to obliterate a town. Sometimes you get lucky and they pass through for a quick refuel on their way elsewhere. If you do everything they say- they might let you live. This one was weak and alone. Your heart sparked with hope that you could get him in and out of town with minimal damage. Maybe you could finally prove yourself to the Protectorates. You’ve been trying to get into that stupid boys club since you could hold a pistol, but it was always the same, “The last thing we need is another good lass like you getting killed by the Skrimm.” It made you angry even just thinking about it. Your hand slides onto the familiar cool touch of a metal barrel. You hear the roar of the motorcyclist’s engine reach a deafening level. The biker is nearly here. You shove gun into the back of your pants. Shady Mike picks his head up but old Hog remains face down. He’s a heavy sleeper.   
Shady Mike looks to you with drowsy confusion- you mouth to him “Skrimmer”. He bolts upright hands raised to the ceiling.   
Good idea. You raise your hands ducking behind the counter a bit. The door swings open and a hot gust sends sand flying in as a dark form enters. Helmet still on.   
“Don’t shoot!” You yell, “We’ll cooperate!”  
“...B-Bourbon… Bourbon…” the biker chokes in a hoarse accent.   
A foreigner.  
Not part of the Skrimm then?  
The stranger rips off the iconically feared helmet and brown sweaty locks spring forth.   
Definitely not a Skrimmer. Skrimmers are bald or with shaved patterns on their heads.  
You let your guard down and stand up straight.   
“...Bourbon... Bourbon…” he continues to chant muffled beneath a black bandana as he staggers towards the bar. Poor bastard’s brain is probably fried.   
“How about some water first?…” you say wearily eyeing the incomer.   
He pulls the dusty bandana away from his face. He licks his dry lips.  
He takes to a stool and guzzles down the first glass, water spilling out the sides.   
“Whoa there, Ranger, not so fast- you’re gonna make yourself sick…”  
He starts to choke and cough up water on the counter. Gross.   
He immediately takes off his black dust jacket to wipe up the mess.   
“Easier there! We have dish rags! No need to get dust on the counter!” You say with a sharp edge. You start wipe down the mess with rag and he tosses the jacket aside. He’s in a Sex Pistols shirt with the sleeves cut off. His arms were well toned. Each muscle well defined with a bulge. Full tattoo sleeves, hardly unusual these days. With the decay of digital communication, most people started to wear their life stories on their skin. You were curious to read his but so far the only thing you could make out were the words on his knuckles which read “live fast”.  
The stranger ran his hands through his hair, collecting the stray strands off his forehead. Then he removed his bandana entirely. That’s when you noticed suspicious scar on the side of his neck. He must’ve cut out his ID tracker…  
And sure, you have thought about doing the same a few times but then you’d have that nightmare again. The one where you get lost in the markless Wasteland and you die alone without a soul to remember you.   
Plus, you weren’t a criminal and you never left this town. There was nothing to gain for the immense pain of removing it.   
There must be a reason he removed his ID tracker- in your experience- the answer was never a positive one.   
He finished chugging the water.   
“Can I have my bloody Bourbon now?” he rasped.   
“Are you good for the money?” you spat with suspicion.  
He slammed some gold tokens on the table and pulled a wrist watches and jewelry out from the pockets of his jeans.   
Your eyes bulged at the bounty. Those personal affects didn’t come out of nowhere. At best was a thief- at worst he was a scalper.   
He untangles the one of the necklaces. He lifts into the air a diamond-shaped ruby pendant.   
“What about this one? Would this one get me a goddamn Bourbon?” He cracked.   
“Your coins will do, Ranger…” you said carefully.   
You poured him his drink and took the coins. He shoved the remaining currency back in his pockets. He drank like he was gulping for oxygen at a high altitude. He slammed down the empty glass and winced as the liquid sin burned down his esophagus. He slapped his hand on the counter and you poured him another. He repeated the process until he was five drinks in.   
“Whoa, slow down… life’s worth remembering ain’t it?” you say.   
“...Not my life and probably not yours…” he mumbled to himself.   
The sentiment hit your chest like a ton of bricks. It was just an expression. A passing comment that gets bounced around here every time some starts drinking their way to the grave. It was usually immediately brushed off or answered with a well rehearsed lie. This stranger just threw you a curve ball with his honest take. Maybe he wanted to talk. Get something off his chest.   
“What made you think you could out chase the sun like that? You’re damn lucky you didn’t burn up!”  
“I had no choice.”  
Cryptic. Okay. Try something else.   
“Are you an ex Skrimmer?” you asked trying to keep it nonchalant.  
“No such thing as an ex Skrimmer, darling. There are only active Skrimmers and dead Skrimmers.”  
To your knowledge that checked out. But it only begs more questions.  
“Are you a scavenger? Is that how you got that helmet?”  
“No,” he pauses to cough up the dust in his lungs. “I got that helmet the hard way…”  
“You killed a Skrimmer?!” you perked up with excitement and immediately tried to dial it back to casual. This stranger just got more and more interesting.   
“Yeah… you could say that....” He replied looking down at the table. His big brown eyes seemed to be avoiding you as you prodded him with questions. His eyes roamed around the lounge. He rubbed his hands across his thighs seeming uncomfortable without another Bourbon to down. His eyes snagged on a piano at the other side of the bar area.   
“Is that- is that a real piano?” he asks with disbelief.   
“Yeah… of course…” you say confused.   
“I didn’t know those still existed,” he sighs, “Do you know anyone that can play?”  
“Uh- yeah- uh- Hog can play a few tunes…” you start, “Hey- Mike!” you shout, “Wake up, Hog. Tell him to play our guest something nice…”   
Hog wakes up, wide eyed reaching immediately for the gun at his hip. Shady Mike calms him and old man Hog starts to play a tune.   
The stranger watches in stunned fascination.  
“So what brings you around these parts?” you ask him.  
“Nothing that concerns you, darling…” he murmurs facing forward once again. “Can I have another drink now?” his hands twitch nervously over the condensation on the empty glass.   
Perhaps he was a junkie? Of course that wasn’t something you could just ask...  
You pity the man and pour him another against your better judgment.   
He sips this one slowly, savoring the burn like he wanted it to hurt.   
“Can I help you with anything? Point you in a direction? Set you up with a trixie?”  
“A trixie?” he looks around confused, seeing no women in sight..   
Oh, that’s right. They’re resting. And you sent the two on duty to hide upstairs. You make your way to the staircase. The two young girls peered curiously at the top of the stairs. You motioned for them to come down.   
“We have two on the clock right now. This is Ember and Twinkle. If you want the full selection you’ll have to wait until after sundown…”  
The girls bend and pose, fawning over each other just as they’ve been taught.   
He scoffs, “Ember and Twinkle… I hope those aren’t your real names…” he takes another sip.   
“Of course not!” you defend them, “They’re trixies! It’s part of the job! … Now do you want one or not, Ranger?” you huff.   
He takes another long sip and looks down at the counter, his voice comes softer than you anticipate, “They’re much too young…” he replies, “I’m not interested.”  
The girls slump with a sigh of relief and slink back into the arm chairs in front of the fan.   
Now, this is the second time his answer threw you for a loop. “Too young” was usually favored in the sinful activities of this town. It was a pleasant surprise to stumble across a hint of morality in this fella.   
“Speaking of names,” you start, “Do you mind if I ask you yours?”  
“It’s Tom,” he said reluctantly, as if it left a foul taste in his mouth. “What’s yours?- and don’t bother telling me your trixie name- I’m not interested in that.”  
“I’m Y/n… and I’m not a trixie any more… I just run the bar for the old bastard that owns the place.”  
He raises an eyebrow as he puts his glass down from another sip, “Not a trixie? I thought all young, unattached women in these little shit towns were trixies…”  
“Unattached? You don’t know that-” you start.   
“-Well- I don’t see a name,” he cuts you off. His eyes slither across the exposed skin of your chest and arms. It’s true. If you were off the market, a man’s name would’ve been etched into your skin already. He doesn’t need your confirmation. Your silence proves him right.  
“Why not a trixie anymore?” he continues, “A promotion?” he smirks satisfied with himself.   
“Not exactly…” you rolled your eyes.   
“A demotion?” he guesses.   
“Definitely not…”  
“Then what? Why not a trixie anymore?” he pushes.   
“Why’d you cut your ID tracker out?” you snap suddenly at his incessant prodding.   
He laughs dryly- satisfied with your fascination and in no hurry to give any answers. He takes a cigarette out of his jacket pocket and holds it between his lips, “Would you give me a light, darling?” he asks through the corner of his mouth.   
He leans over the counter and you oblige him with a light. He takes a long drag.   
“Were you just no good at it?...” he snorts and some of the smoke empties out of his nostrils.  
You slam your hand on the counter- offended by the accusation. He suppresses a smirk.   
Hog stops playing the tune and chimes in, “The Doc told Risky that she was fertile!”   
In one smooth motion, Tom spins on the stool, whipping the gun out of his holster and shoots the glass sitting on the piano. The old man jumps and shields himself from the shards of glass.   
“I wasn’t asking you, old man. Now, why don’t you stick to playing the music?” Tom says calmly.   
“What the hell was that for?!” You shout. “There’s no shooting in here! You’re gonna have to pay for that glass!”   
Tom gives you a mock look of surprise, “No shooting in here? Is that why you have a glock dangerously shoved down the back of your panties?”   
You feel your face turn red and he sneers with delight.   
“You didn’t think you were being sneaky about that were you?” He mocks tapping his cigarette on the counter.   
You shamefully pull the gun out of your pants. You put the gun on the counter.   
“Do you even know how to use that thing, little girl?” He asks condescendingly.   
“Of course! I was raised in this hell of a wasteland…”  
“Are you a good shot?”  
“Better than you!” You counter quickly.   
He laughs at the notion, “Prove it, darling.”  
You grab an empty beer bottle and hand it to him, “Put it anywhere you want…”  
“I thought there was no shooting in here,” he muses.   
He’s right. Risky Rick would not be happy if he found out you were shooting in his building without an immediate danger present.   
“Well, then,” you say, “I guess you’re just gonna have to believe me until the scorching hours are over…”  
He shakes his head, with clear disbelief.   
You begin to clean another glass.   
“So uh- you’re their sacred cow then?” he smirks.   
“What?”  
“The only fertile broad in town? Do they worship you?” he laughs impolitely.   
“No… far from it,” you mumble under your breath.   
“What do you mean?”  
“I’m for sale,” you say quietly focusing on the glass.   
“For sale?!” he chuckles in amusement, “So not a sacred cow at all but a broodmare!”  
“Shut the fuck up!” you bite.   
“So what- everyone in town gets a turn- and soon enough everyone will be half siblings?” he laughs so hard he starts coughing.   
You pour him a glass of water to keep up appearances, but you secretly hopes he chokes on it.   
When you don’t respond right away he follows up, “How much do you cost?”  
“Definitely more than you can afford, Ranger!” you snap.   
“Oh, please, darling! I’m not interested in buying some beer wench to breed with… Especially when I can get what I want from you for free…”  
You nearly drop the glass you were polishing, “What!” you gasp.   
“You said you’re for sale. The price is apparently very high since you saw the merchandise I’m carrying and think I can’t afford you. That means there’s no way in hell anyone in this bloody shanty town can afford you… So that means your being saved for some big buyer. Some government official that escaped the big bombs. Some old wrinkly prick to marry you off to when he passes through town. So that means the boss can’t risk you getting a disease… but I’m sure that doesn't stop him from testing out his inventory…”  
You throw the glass down and slam your white-knuckled fists on the counter. He struck a nerve. You hate that he is able to read your life so plainly.  
He continues, his voice less snarky, “Boss is sleeping, right? I might be your last shot at a young man…”   
You feel anger and rage boiling up from your gut. Who does this drifter think he is?  
“Come on, darling- Don’t you want to stick it to that bastard? The one who told you no one could touch you until you were sold like a prized pig auctioned off to the highest bidder…”   
Your chest heaves with every deep breath as you try to remain calm. You grip the edge of the counter for stability and bend over. He takes one last drag of his cigarette and extinguishes it in the glass of water. He gets up and hops over the counter to your side of the bar.   
He stands behind you. He puts his hands on your hips but leaves distance, “Come on… I’m not going to force you… but-”  
You spin around to face him and he stops his sentence short, “Just shut up!” you growl.   
He pulls you flush against his hips. His dark brown eyes pierce your soul with a ferocity. A sweaty curl dangles onto his forehead. He waits for you to make the next move.   
This really might be your last chance to sleep with someone of your own free will. And he’s pretty handsome, too, which certainly doesn’t hurt.  
You jump on him, wrapping your legs around his waist, “My bedroom is upstairs,” you say flatly.  
A smirk inches up his face. He likes to win these games.   
You start to suck the tender skin of his neck. The grainy dirt mixed with sweat tastes bitter, but this act of rebellion was worth it.   
The foreigner starts to carry you up the stairs. The two young trixies follow you with their eyes as you pass by. “Take over the bar!” you bark in between sucks. The two girls scurry to their feet in obedience.  
At the top of the stairs, you direct the drifter to the last door on the right. A small closet-turned-bedroom, for the orphaned girl who was no longer allowed to entertain men for her keep.   
His hands roam to your ass as he kicks the door closed behind him. He plops you down on your rickety twin bed. The midday sun blazes through the small window, illuminating a golden beam of dust.   
The drifter looks at his surroundings, “Hmm, homey...” he says sarcastically.   
“Shut up, criminal!” you yell playfully.   
He kicks off his torn leather boots and climbs on top of you with the grace of a panther prowling on all fours. On your back, spread eagle, you haven’t been in this position in a while. His face close to yours, his breath reeks of cigarettes and bourbon, “Criminal? You think I’m a criminal?” he snickers, pleased with himself.  
“My mistake,” you spit, “I took you for a man- but a man would’ve stopped talking by now!”   
One hand grips your throat and he kisses you hard on the mouth. You moan with excitement. He knows how to play rough.   
You start to pull off his shirt and he sits upright long enough to shed the layer. There are more tattoos… but you can’t get a good look as he immediately comes crashing back down to suck on your lower lip. He starts to unbutton your black velvet vest top. His fingers fumble on the plastic buttons and he curses under his breath. He lets you sit up to expel the hot structured fabric. He unclasps your bra in one try and throws it carelessly behind him.   
You grab his face pulling it to yours. You can feel the scratchy remnants of stubble. You kiss him with a hungry open-mouthed desire. He returns the energy of the kiss and takes off your boots. You break away to undo your jeans and he hastily yanks them and your panties along with them.   
He pushed your legs apart and begins to nibble at the tender flesh of your inner thigh.   
“What are ya doin down there?” You ask with confusion.   
He raises an eyebrow but then realizes that your question was serious and he smiles, “Oh, I think you’ll like it…”  
He presses kisses on your outer labia. Then he starts to make his way inward. His tongue moving lengthwise through your inner folds slow and rhythmically, stopping short of your clitoris. You move your hips and try to trick him into pressing his tongue over the sweet spot but he’s much too quick. He gently sucks the surrounding area, driving you crazy. He slowly slips his fingers inside of you and teases you from the inside. You arch your back moaning with want. Finally, he gives your clit proper attention, seeing that you can’t take the teasing any longer. The much anticipated stimulation throttles you into fifth gear. Your fingers tug on his hair as shivers trickle down your spine. You can feel him suppress a cocky smile against your pussy. You let out an unexpectedly loud breathy moan, your pheromones take over and suddenly the words pouring out of your mouth are, “Please! Fuck me, Daddy!”   
Like a whistle calling home a hound, the drifter’s head shot up at the call. He struggled as he tried to get out of his jeans faster than his brain could think. Fumbling to get the tight pants off as his erect cock flopped around helplessly, you couldn’t help but start laughing at the sight.   
Rangers are all the same- thinking they’re tough and hot shit until some girl with spread legs calls them “Daddy” and suddenly they’re bumbling fools.   
When he’s released from the imprisonment of his pants, he tackles you roughly, “Who are you laughing at, darling?” he asks with a fierce stare and a hand tugs at your hair a bit.   
“Someone that’s definitely not a ‘Daddy’...” you challenge with stare of defiance.   
He sharply inhales through his nostrils and shakes his head with breathy laugh. He is merely amused by your insolence.   
His fingers slide down to your swollen clit and he begins to rub in a circular motion. You yelp with surrender obediently at his touch, but it’s not quite enough for the drifter.   
He bites the tender skin of your neck leaving imprints.   
You wrap your hands around him and let your nails dig into his smooth shoulders. As you begin to moan again, he slips his fingers inside but only for a moment. It’s a cruel tease.   
“Ranger, don’t be cruel!” you plead.   
He uses the shimmering, thick juices to slick himself up.   
He taps his cock teasingly against your clit, “I don’t believe those are the magic words sweetheart,” he mocks.   
You run your hands through his hair trying to hold out on him. Resist his game. He draws near to your entrance only to push the tip back up through your folds.   
“Please! Daddy!” you cave.   
He flashes a wry satisfied smile and presses into you slowly.   
“OHFUCK!” you cry out as his dick pushes you apart.   
He grunts, patiently waiting for your innards to adjust.   
“...Sorry… It’s been a while…” you apologize sympathetically.   
He shakes his head, “Don’t apologize.”  
He starts of slow, finding a steady rhythm. You nip at his neck and moan at him encouragingly.   
“Come on, faster, kid!” you beg through grit teeth.   
“Kid?” he grunts at you angrily. He starts to choke you.   
“Yeah. Kid,” you rasp with defiance.   
He pulls out and flips you over face down. He pushes your face into the pillow and spanks your ass with his other hand. You yelp. He smacks you again and you can feel a relentless tingling sensation in the shape of a hand print. He slaps your tush a few more times in succession for good measure.  
Then he starts to gently rub the abused area and whispers in your ear, “I won’t be so kind next time you disrespect me.”  
“Yes, Daddy!” you shout.   
He suddenly wraps his arms around you and lifts you up like a rag doll. He positions himself in a seated position on the edge of the bed and grumbles in your ear, “Sit on it, darling.”  
You obey and insert him once more. The tips of his fingers dig into the skin of your hips as he guides your motion.   
“Faster!” he commands spanking your ass three times in a row.   
He pinches your nipple and you let out a helpless whimper of submission.  
You push him down onto his back and his eyes flare with pleasant surprise at your boldness.   
You lean in for a wild kiss. As you sit back up, you drag your nails down his chest and writhes at the pain and pleasure. You take not of a tattoo that stretches down the center of his chest which reads, “Fiction”.   
You hold his eye contact as you howl out praises for him.  
Its then that you see of flicker of something else. A twinkle of something softer. Something real. An emotion other than blind lust and getting off. But it's fleeting.   
You feel yourself start to cum on his fat cock. The pulsations make the drifter dangerously close to spilling his load inside of you.  
“Okay, okay, okay!” He chants and you dismount.   
He stands up as you kneel on the dusty wood floor in front of him. He shuts his eyes tight and moans while he beats himself to completion. Warm thick fluid sprays onto your face and you flinch as it nearly misses your eye. He plops back onto the bed with a heavy sigh. Sweaty. Exhausted. Spent.   
He watches you as you lick his semen off your lips. He shakes his head with a gentle laugh.   
He holds your jaw tenderly in his hand, “Good girl.”


	2. It Ain't a Kind World for Dames

You wipe off with a rag. The drifter pulls on his boxers and takes a rest on your bed. Good idea.

You were working a double shift today. A little snooze now would be good. You change back into your uniform. 

You reach for the door knob when the drifter moans, “Where do you think your going, Bessie?” 

Bessie? 

Did he really just call you by a stereotypical cow name? 

You shake it off. He’s still a guest, “I was going next door to take a nap before sundown. Can I get you something?” 

“Why not snooze right here? There’s enough room for the two of us…” 

Reluctantly, you slink back towards your bed and he scoots over to make room. 

“This doesn’t mean anything, by the way,” he says staring at the ceiling. 

“I know…” you say with annoyance, “It never means anything. It’s a commodity with increasingly limited supplies. I used to be a trixie, remember?” 

“I know- I remember,” he spits back, “I’m just making sure we’re clear, since there wasn’t an exchange of money.  This still means nothing. I’m not going to stick around. I should be gone by tonight- morning at the latest.”

“Well, don’t worry, Ranger, your cock is no magic wand- no Sparkledust- no heroin. It’s not something that’s gonna keep me up at night,” you grumble at his ignorance. 

“Speaking of Sparkledust and heroin- do you got any of that in this christforesaken town?”

“Yeah… but no one that’s gonna sell to the likes of you!” you chuckle, “You’ll have to go further north to Salt Ridge for a dealer that will sell to a foreigner…”

He lets out a disappointed sigh. 

“Where are you from? Your accent- I can’t quite place it…”

“I’m from southwest London, darling.”

“London?”

“Back when there was such thing… yes…” 

“But the borders have been closed for decades… how did you get into the country?”

“Special work visa… A 6 month job- top secret- and then I’d be deported…”

“Then why weren’t you?”

“I wanted to stay…” there was a pang in the way he articulated each word. 

You turned to him. His eyes were glassy and he swallowed hard. His Adam’s apple bobbed up and down, trying to push away that lump in his throat. 

“So your family-”

“-probably burned up- I don’t know. Your guess is as good as mine,” he cut. 

“What made you stay in the first place?”

“Another job,” he said, but something in his eyes screamed ‘a girl’. “That’s enough questions for now, Bessie…” he mumbled and rolled away from you.

You rolled your eyes at the cheap insult.

But you seemed to strike a nerve with him. If there was a woman… what happened to her? Your mind wanders in speculation and each scenario you drum up is more horrific and terrifying than the last. Maybe it was just for another job. Hopefully. This world wasn’t too kind to Dames. Not with the Skrimm around...

Finally, you drift off into the precious clutches of sleep.

*** 

You wake up when the old wooden door creaks open. It’s Twinkle. The last drop of sunlight bleeds in through the window. 

“Boss will be here any minute, y/n!” She whisper shouts. 

You scramble to your feet fixing your hair quickly and Tom is jostled awake by the movement. He gives you a confused look like he doesn’t even know what year it is. 

“Take your time, Ranger…” you reassure him and he settles back down to sleep. 

The bar is starting to fill with the day laborers. Hog and Shady Mike bound off for their night shift. Sand is starting to pile in with each coming Ranger. The trixies start to file downstairs, primped and polished. Faces made, chins up, chest out.

The Rangers lick their wind chapped lips like wolves descending on a hare. 

You tap Ember out from behind the bar and the young girl sighs with relief. 

She mouths to you, ‘Was it good?’. 

You shake your head ‘no’, making a sour face and she giggles. 

It wasn’t even the slightest bit true.

But part of you wishes it were. 

Your future buyer would certainly be too worn and old for that kind of boot-knocking. 

You pour some whiskey for Mark Malice. The evening crowd ticks in as usual.  Risky Rick enters the establishment. He puts his hands on you as you pour more drinks. You tell him that a guest is resting upstairs. 

“Did he pay for a trixie first?” the question make your stomach lurch. What if Risky somehow finds out what you did?

You try to swallow the fear, “N-no, sir… he was very tired. He sped in during the scorching hours…”

“Did you offer him a trixie? Offer him Twinkle and Ember? Give him a rundown of tonight’s selection?”

“Yes… he wasn’t interested…”

“Wasn’t interested?!” Risky scoffed and released you from his grip. You let out a breath of relief, but immediately sucked it back in when continued, “What kind of man was this? Was he interested in you?”

“No! No! Of course not! He is just some drifter without an ID tracker-”

“So you left a criminal unattended upstairs with my trixies and the valuables!” he boomed. 

“No! I didn’t! The trixies were safe in the rouge rooms- he stayed in my room!”

“And how are you so sure that he stayed there…” you cocked his head with an edgy suspicion.

“I checked up on him frequently!” you say trying not to crack under the weight of this thinly veiled lie. 

Risky eyed you with doubt but you held strong, “I better not find out that he touched you without paying… No one wants to buy the cow if they get the milk for free…”

Flattering. 

You continue to serve the men at the bar and the trixies continue to service the men upstairs. Traipsing groggily down the stairs, the drifter is met with curious looks from everyone in the bar. 

Mark Malice scoffs, “A young buck?… he looks up to no good.”

Twinkle had folded up Tom’s jacket and bandana and placed it behind the counter with his stolen Skrimm helmet. You offer it up to him, thinking he’s on his way out. 

He gives you a crooked smile, “You’re not getting rid of me quite yet, darling. I think I’ll stay for another drink.”

You put his things back behind the counter and pour him a drink.

Mark Malice turns to the drifter, “Oh, I reckon you better stay for more than just one more drink!”

“No, I really can’t stay. I shouldn’t have stayed as long as I did….” Tom replies. 

Malice shakes his head, “No, no, no, young buck. There’s a gnarly sandstorm heading this way.”

“I’ve ridden through my fair share of sandstorms. I’m sure I’ll be alright.”

“No, son. This one’s a behemoth. Even the cattle are staying inside. Leaving in the next 24 hours would be a death wish. You’ll never make it to the next town in those conditions.” 

Tom sighs heavily and plops on a bar stool, “I guess I’ll stay another night then.”

Your heart surges and you’re not quite sure why. There was just something refreshingly different about this stranger and your mind prickled with questions about him. 

You bring beers to some Rangers at the other end of the bar when Risky starts to interrogate Tom from over the counter. The conversation is hushed and abrasive. You can’t distinguish what they’re saying above the cacophony of the lounge area. You glance over when you here Tom laugh loud and dismissively. He pulls out a cigarette. He whistles at you, gesturing that he needs a light. Tom leans over the counter and Risky steps aside. Close to him once again you get a whiff of his scent and are immediately taken back to the events in your bedroom. Tom winks at you, “Thanks, love.”

You try hard to suppress the blush that fills your cheeks. 

You start to wipe down the counter and try to stay in earshot of the conversation for as long as possible. 

You hear Risky start to sell him on some of his prized trixies. Risky makes a few of them dance for Tom but he seems unamused by their stunts. The more Risky presses him for a sale the more agitated Tom seems to become. He taps his cigarette compulsively and stares down at the counter in front of him. His other hand starts to fidget like it did earlier. 

Risky ignores all of his body language and continues to push the sale on him until finally Tom growls, “I’m not interested, mate.”

Tom throws back the last of his drink and taps aggressively for another. Quickly you swing over to pour him another. You are relieved for the excuse to be in earshot again. 

He looks up from the counter and his soft brown eyes lock on yours for a split second and you let slip a genuine smile.

“Thanks again, love,” he says warmly. 

You start to walk back towards another patron who needs a light. 

“Hold up there, sugar,” Risky grunts catching you by the waistband of your jeans and pulling you back towards him. 

You yelp with surprise. 

Risky pulls you flush against him with his arm wrapped impossibly tight around your waist. 

“I think I get your game now, Ranger…” Risky grumbles, “You’re a cocky little fucker that only wants what’s off limits.”

Tom’s eyebrows furrow, perhaps trying to determine the degree of nuance in Risky’s words. 

“But you’re in luck,” Risky continues, “For the right price you can take this one with ya, if you’d like. She’s got a little bit of fight in her- but you’re a strapping young Ranger, I’m sure you could hold her down. And if she gets to ornery you could always just tie her up until she wears herself out. Oh- and the best part is- she’s fully functional. You could make a wife outta this one if you want. She’s barely been touched and the Doc says she can pop out little ones. So whatta ya say?” 

Tom takes in a big puff and holds it in his mouth before letting it go. He looks back down at the counter, “...I’m not interested…” 

“Sure, ya are!” Risky spits. “You’ve been ogling her every time she walks by- don’t you lie to me boy!”

“No. Really. I’m not interest in your breeding stock,” Tom grumbled. He was getting irritated by Risky’s sales pitch. 

“Well- I get it now- you don’t want to make such a big investment an unknown! Smart fella!” Risky’s voice suddenly descended into a conniving register, “Well here- have a sneak peak!”

Risky started to unbutton your vest in front of the drifter. He start to fondle you, trying to rouse a reaction out of Tom. Tom kept his eyes low, trying to not give himself away, although his hands were twitching now more than ever. You tried to fight your way out of Risky’s grip but he managed to handcuff your hands in front of you so you could start swinging. He’s certainly learned his lesson on that one. 

Next, Risky pulls down your jeans and forces you to step out of them by pushing you off balance. He catches you before you fall over. He turns you around slaps your ass, trying to tempt the Ranger. 

“He’s not interested!” You scream at Risky. 

“Shut your damn mouth!” He barks. Grabbing Tom’s bandana from behind the counter, he makes an impromptu gag for you out of it. “Now if you want to see any more son, you’ll have to pay…”

“I don’t want to see anymore! Now will you bloody stop!” Tom yells finally unleashing the full spectrum of his detest for Risky’s business propositions. 

“Ohhhh… I get it now! Mr. ProperLondonPants doesn’t like watching the ladies get roughed up!” Risky spread into a toothless grin. “Well- I’ll tell ya what- for 50 coins you can treat her anyway you like for the night- just no fucking. I can’t afford her catching something or getting knocked up. We have a deal?”

Tom eyes the man contemptuously and takes another drag. 

Risky smacks you again and pulls aside your underwear. He begins to unzip his pants. You shut your eyes tight bracing for what comes next. 

Then you hear the clatter of coins against the countertop. 

“25 coins for you. And the girl gets paid this necklace,” he says holding up the diamond shaped ruby pendant from earlier.

“No dice! These women get paid in food and board. All incoming cash flow goes directly to me,” Risky states. 

Tom slips the necklace back in his pocket and pulls out more coins, “35.”

Risky grunts in response. 

“Come on, mate! I’ve never met a mouth worth 50! If she’s hardly touched as you say- then she probably isn’t that good!” 

“40. Final offer,” Risky gruffs. 

“Deal.” 

Risky eagerly scoops the coins off the counter and yells at one of the trixies. 

You dread the humiliation that awaits you. 

The trixie timidly hands Risky a metal contraption complete with a lock and key. 

It’s a chastity belt. 

“I hope you don’t mind this extra precaution, Ranger… I just don’t want you gettin any ideas…” Risky says as he locks you in and pockets the key. “She’s all yours, partner!” 

“Uncuff her. I think I can handle a little resistance tonight.”

“Whatever you say…”

Risky frees your hands, you pick up your clothes off the floor and walk around to the drifters side of the counter. He takes his bandana out of your mouth and ties it around your neck.

He pinches your buttocks, “Why don’t you go wait upstairs for me. I’ll be up after a few more drinks….”

So, you wait.

For a couple of hours. 

Eventually, you drift off to sleep. 

You wake up to the fervent swing of the door. 

You bolt upright. 

Tom’s silhouette sways in the door frame. 

“Alright, girl, now it’s time to play,” he slurs. 

You get up and gently guide him to the bed. He stumbles over his own feet several times in the 3 feet journey. 

You lay him down. 

“Ranger, you don’t look too swell…” you say hesitantly. 

“Well, I paid 40 for you so I better get my money’s worth!” 

He starts to unzip his pants but struggles to get them down very far. You assist him in undressing as he commands. His flaccid penis flops lifelessly about as you shimmy him out of his clothes. 

You put a hand on his chest, “Ranger, you should really sleep some of this off first…” 

“Noooo… I can’t. I can’t do it. Not sober.” 

Does he not remember boning you earlier? What’s the difference? Was he that repulsed by the dirty money? Shit wasn’t adding up. 

“Well, Ranger, I just don’t think you can get it up at this point…” you say quietly.

“Just try!” 

You spit on your hand and start to pump him in your fist. He remains limp with little improvement. 

“Stop,” he huffs, perhaps a tad embarrassed. “I can’t do it. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, I asked.”

“Is there anything else, I can do for you?” You ask politely rubbing your hands along his shoulders. 

“Just go to sleep, Bessie,” he says curtly and rolls to face away from you. 

You lay beside him and nestle under the covers. Tonight, could’ve been much worse. And there were so many nights that were. 

You start to drift off to sleep when you feel Tom start to twitch. The shitty spring mattress creaks with every little movement.

You turn over. 

He’s asleep. 

But it ain’t good. 

He’s got a bad case of the shakes. 

Alcohol poisoning?

Drug withdrawal?

Nightmares?

You debate waking him up. 

But your hand freezes before you shake him awake. 

This isn’t part of the job.

You don’t have to interfere. 

Just claim that you were already asleep.

Plausible deniability.  

You’ll find out when morning comes. 


	3. Hope- The Deadliest Poison

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're enjoying this story- be sure to bookmark it! This is going to be a wild ride and I have a lot of elements and adventures planned for story. If you have enjoyed this so far- you won't want to miss out on the rest!

The morning sun’s red rays slice in through the window. 

For a moment, you’re disoriented from a nightmare. The same one that haunts you at least a dozen times a year. 

You think for a moment that you’re alone. 

Then you remember…

The creaky mattress is eerily silent. 

Fear and guilt strikes your heart and your lungs constrict. 

Icy blood pumps through your veins. 

Head to toe. 

What have you done?!

Is he dead?…

Slowly you roll over and prop yourself up on your elbow. 

You peer over Tom’s body. 

His face looks suspiciously pale.

“...Tom?...” you say quietly. 

You gently shake him. 

His eyes barely open. 

Suddenly. 

He bolts upright and spews chunks off the side of the bed. 

Watery dark liquor mostly. 

Gross. 

But he’s alive. 

He retches up every last ounce of meat and matter in his system. The pungent smell slaps you in the face. 

You realize you are still wearing his bandana around your neck and you pull it up over your nose. The aroma of his musk, sweat and cigarettes emanating from the cloth was preferable to the stink of vomit.

You grab his Sex Pistols shirt off the floor, shake out the dust and throw it on. You glance over your shoulder… he’s still heaving over the bed. 

You make your way down the hallway. Each step carefully avoiding the creaky pieces of wood. The men have left but the trixies are still asleep. The lounge and bar have been through hell and back. Of course Risky wouldn’t bother to clean up before slumping off to his house next door. You grab a mop and bucket. A tall glass of water. A warm, wet rag.

You balance everything carefully, making your way up the stairs.

Tom doesn’t even look up when you enter the room. His head is hung low.

You hand him the glass of water which he takes eagerly. 

“Sip,” you remind him. 

He listens this time. 

You throw the rag over his neck and begin to mop up the sickly fluid. His eyes remain fixed on the floorboards. He doesn’t say a thing. 

Finally, you’re done mopping up the mess and start to walk away he croaks, “Trying to steal my shirt now, aren’t you?” A smile pulls at the corners of his lips.

You abandon the mop and bucket in the corner of your room as you take off his shirt, “Well, here- you can have it back!” You say as you ball it up and throw it at him. 

He chuckles, “... and uh- thanks… by the way… I’m sorry I puked on your floor…”

“It happens more often than ya think…” you shrug and pull the bandana away from your face. 

He gestures for you to come closer and those piercing intense eyes give you no choice but to obey. 

The mattress springs shriek as you climb back into the bed. 

He whispers in your ear, his breath hot and foul, “Is there any chance you could forget all about last night… and perhaps this morning…” 

You snicker, “You’re certainly not the first drunk Ranger that couldn’t get it up… and you’re definitely not the last…” 

He grabs the hair at the back of your neck, pulling it taught and chills trickle down your spine, “But more than that…” he starts, “I don’t want you to think that I condone Rick’s… er- business…”

“Hmm… really?” You say sarcastically, “You think you’re a horse of a different color? … Because the shades you spank me are both red.”

He shakes his head dismissively. He leans in closer until his dry lips graze against your ear, “I don’t want to coerce you into doing anything you don’t want to do- that’s a coward’s tactic. I want you to fuck me because you NEED to. Because you’ll ache and twitch without me.” 

You scoff and roll your eyes, “Whatever you say, Ranger…” 

You were trying hard to suppress the fact that his commanding actions were turning you on. You were getting slick beneath the belt.

He pins you into your back. Hands clamped on your shoulders pressing you into the mattress. 

Your eyes trail from word “fast” on his knuckles up his tattoo sleeve and then straight into those deadly big browns. 

His lips flickered into a smile, satisfied that you were admiring his strength. 

His eyes locked on yours, his hand trails down to your nether regions. 

Then. 

Nothing. 

Nothing because icy, cold metal has you cock blocked.

He clicks his tongue at you, “Such a shame, darling,” he teases. He knocks on the steel for good measure. Did he think it would sound hollow? 

He peels away from you and you sit upright. 

He half smiles at a memory, eyes fixed on the floor, but as quickly as it came- the expression melts off his face. 

You catch a better look at the tattoos on the back of his shoulder blade.

Tally marks. 

Dames ridden?

Or men murdered? 

Could you venture to ask? 

There are seven marks total. Absentmindedly, you begun to trace them with your index finger. He’ll bring it up if he feels like talking. 

He looks over his shoulder and you pull your hand away. 

“Gotta add one more…” he grumbles. “Maybe I’ll get that done before I leave town….” 

Dames? 

Was that tally mark for you?

Your face reddens and you recoil a bit. You don’t care about his numbers. His whole back could be riddled with them for all you care. In fact that would make it better. You’d hate to think that a shred of you was floating out there in the ether- forever one with his skin. It felt too personal. Too monumental for such a rash encounter. You’d rather be forgotten. Written off as a fever dream in a heat wave. 

He notices your discomfort and merely says, “It’s not a kind world, darling. But he who makes a beast out of himself, gets rid of the pain of being a man.”

You scrunch up your nose. That didn’t make much sense at all. 

He continues, “The first one was the hardest. And I hate to admit that it gets easier…” the look in his eyes get further away. 

Oh. 

Never mind.

He’s just a murderer.  

A weird and sick brand of relief washes over you. 

Sure- he was killer. But who was sinless these days? At least that tattoo wasn’t about you. 

“Don’t worry, darling- They were all deserved it… I’d never hurt a Dame or an innocent man.”

Innocent man?

What a concept. 

“So what are ya? Some kind of bounty hunter with a moral code?” you ask. 

“No… God, I wish I got paid- I SHOULD get paid… But no. I’m after the Skrimm.”

“The Skrimm?!” this peaked your interest.

His chest swelled with a bit of pride. He feasted on your reaction, “I’m going to hunt down every last one of them…”

You let out a snort of laughter through your nose. You can’t help but wheeze at the outlandish sentiment. 

“What? What’s so funny?”

“You. You think your going to stop the most powerful force in the States? What strain of Sparkledust are you on? It must be some good shit!”

Tom’s jaw set. His fists clenched. The veins in his arms popped. 

He was serious. Serious as a Risky with his three-pronged, electric cattle rod. 

“Well- fine then- you don’t have to believe me!  And when they come to rape you and take you away- I’ll let them,” he spits. 

You choked on your own laughter. A lump caught painfully in your throat. You could feel the blood flush from your face. The words rang too true as they settled with the dust on the floor. 

One of your worst fears verbalized by a complete stranger. 

Picking your jaw off the floor you shout back, “What the hell is wrong with you?! Why would you say such a thing?”

“Because I don’t appreciate your lack of faith! The Skrimm took EVERYTHING FROM ME!” he yelled. “And I won’t let myself die until they’re eliminated!”

“HEY!” you shot back, “The Skrimm took everything from me too! WHO THE  FUCK do you think you’re talking to?! They killed my whole family- I was just- I was just- a fucking KID! And an orphan turned trixie for this goddamn town! I bet you weren’t even in the States during the Reign of Fury!... And after all this shit- I found out I’M part of what they’re after!”

Tom’s face fell. His expression shattered through a million different emotions. 

“Yeah! That’s what I thought!” you say throwing it in his face. “Don’t you DARE ever try to tell me that I don’t understand what it’s like to lose something to the Skrimm… I lost my whole existence…”

You could nearly taste the venom of hate on your teeth.

He claps a hand awkwardly on your shoulder, his voice hoarse, remorseful, broken, “You’re right. I’m sorry. I forgot my place. I just- I just- I don’t want anyone- I don’t want anyone else-”

“I know,” you cut him off. You don’t want his pity. You just want him to shut the fuck up. You shake your head at him. You need to change the tempo of the conversation. Bring in a little light before the tears in your eyes run rampant and you fall apart. The awkward and tense silence was starting to stretch the fabric of time. “And… they won’t let me be a Protectorate! Can you believe that?” you say with a forced upbeat chuckle. Fake wonderment. Take the bait. Make the joke. 

He laughs half heartedly in response, the air still heavy on his chest, “Of course they won’t darling…” he pauses, carefully mulling over his next thought, “you’re probably a terrible shot!” he went for the joke. Thank fuck.  

You shove his shoulder playfully, “If there wasn’t a hell storm outside- I’d challenge you to a quick draw! … Looks like it’s your lucky day, Ranger…”

He laughs, with a sarcastic nod. His tongues slides across his teeth. 

He tugs gently on his bandana which is still tied around your neck, “Could duel for this relic of mine you can’t seem to let go of, little thief,” he utters seductively through a sinful smile. 

You roll your eyes at him and pretend to be annoyed with his toying. 

“Take it, pretty boy- there’s plenty more of these…” you sass. 

“Pretty boy? Who you calling pretty boy?” he says looking around dramatically, “You think I’m pretty? I should be so flattered...” he laughs. “But you’re right… it’s not an irreplaceable item…” you lean towards him as he unties the bandana from around your neck. He still smells like whisky and sweat. You inhale his scent deeply. Part of you wants to remember him when he leaves. The other part of you secretly hopes he’ll never leave.

But hope is useless. You know better than that.

He quickly reaches to the floor into the pocket of his jeans.

He pulls out that ruby, diamond-shaped pendant again and says, “But this isn’t so replaceable… so I’ll trade, how about that?”

You are unsure how to respond. 

Was this a gift?

The attention made you a little uncomfortable.

Everything has a price. Precious artifacts like that were worth more than blood these days. 

He starts to drape it around your neck and you accept the gesture graciously, allowing him to annoint you with this rare honor. The silver chain tingles cool against your sun-scorched skin. 

This is now the third time he’s offered it to you. 

Why has he been so eager to give you this stolen jewel? There’s gotta be an endgame motive. A catch. 

He closes the clasp. You stare down at the gorgeous rare gem as it sparkles in the glinting light from the window. Your fingers tremble as they gently brush across the smooth face of the gem. 

It’s brighter than that fiery ball of radiation in the sky. 

Your gut reaction is to bashfully giggle, like some foolish little Dame playing dress up with her mother’s clothing. You’ve never worn anything more beautiful and precious. 

“Perfect,” he says. 

How could something so priceless hang around your neck, while your chastity belt still clung heavy on your skin… Nothing about this image made sense.

“... Thank you…” you muttered awkwardly. What did this mean? What did you owe him, now?

You slinked off the bed.

Turned to him on your knees. 

Was this the trick?

Was this what he was gunning for?

He laughs to himself. 

You can’t tell what he means by it. 

You remain, obedient, and compliant, in your posture of submission.  

He grabs your hands and pulls you up and onto his lap. You’re nearly eye-to-eye.  His hands sit patiently at your waist, “Now, that’s more like it, darling,” he murmurs, raising his eyebrows. 

You can’t decipher this gesture. Where was this going?

“Why don’t you come with me?” he asks, “Why don’t you leave with me, tonight?”

“You’re going to buy me?” you say as a hot bolt of hope shoots up your chest. 

“No! Of course not!” he says dismissively, and your heart drops fast.

“You’re gonna steal me?”- hope rearing its ugly head again.

“No- no- no! Not at all! You’re not item to be sold or stolen- you’re a woman! Or have you forgotten?”

Your heart pounds so loud you’re afraid he can hear it. He wants you to go with him. You could fight the Skrimm. Finally- feel avenged for your loses… Get some closure. Bury the grief you’ve been shackled with into something productive. Afterwards, swallow a hard pill of peace. Move on into the great unknown of a post-Skrimm society.  It all seemed too good to be true.

Hope was the deadliest poison.

“Why?” you ask, raising an eyebrow, “Why would you ask me to come along?”

His eyes briefly lower to your chest before they return to your eyes, “Well- why not?”

“Cop out. That’s not an answer. That’s just another question,” you press skeptically. 

“Ah, you’re a very smart little girl,” his voice rang with that condescending vibrato, that was simultaneously charming and insulting. 

“Answer me, Ranger,” your eyes narrow. 

His eyes flit away under the beam of your glare. His eyes float around the room as if he looked for the answer to be written in the dust on the walls. “Well, if you’re as good a shot as you think you are- then I could really use you…” he says cooly. 

“Why would you take such a big risk on a stranger? I could be the biggest liar you ever met. Lousy with a pistol. Couldn’t hit a target at point blank...” you cock your head to the side.

“Well- what if you’re not?- Besides! Why are you looking this gift horse in the mouth? Do you really want to stay in this little shit town? Waiting for the ‘Prince Charming’ of big oil to come buy you out, hm?” his tone stings with every syllable. He had a point. A quick and shitty life outside this town still beat the alternative. His hands squeeze your sides playfully, you jump about on his lap as it starts to tickle. “Come on, darling! I thought you hated the Skrimm? Screw the Protectorates! Defence was never going to work anyway! Don’t you want to hunt the hunters- make them pay for every last bit of their sins?” his words slide down your throat smooth as honey.

The small flames of hope, fanned dangerously with each word he spoke. 

“So are you in or not?” he challenges. The spirited twinkle in those dark brown eyes were as intoxicating as Sparkledust. 

“I’m in.”   


	4. The Precipice of Fate

You plan to leave right after you close up the bar. Risky and the other big guns will be working or at home sleeping off the liquor. You’ll have enough time before the scorching hours to clear any search party. It was as close to perfect as a plan could get. 

That made you nervous. 

Tom helped you pack your things. You would only take what could fit in a pack and items that wouldn’t be noticed as missing during the day. Spare clothes. Food. Pistol. Ammunition. Canteen. 

You hand Tom a towel and cake of soap for bathing. You fill the tin tub a mere fourth of the way for him. The well water was low in this record drought. 

You remind him to wipe as much sand off as he can first. 

He snickers at you, “I know how to take a fucking bath, Bessie.”

“Sure don’t look like it…” you smirk. 

He whips the towel at your ass for your cheekiness and you skitter away with a yelp. He grabs your arm before you leave the washroom. His grip confident as he quickly yanks you into him without hesitation. Holding you hostage in his arms, he whispers in your ear, “It might be a while before your next bath, why don’t you join me?” 

Your heartbeat leaps into your throat and panic springs your reflexes into action. 

You stomp hard on his barefoot with the heel of your boot and elbow him in the groin to break away from his grasp. 

He loses his breath in shock as he doubles over clutching his tender goods. 

He looks up at you with hybrid of wonderment and dislike, “You could’ve just said, ‘No.’”

But could you have?

How were you supposed to know? 

How were you supposed to tell the difference?

An ancient fear tingles at the back of your spine,  _ What if he tells the boss? _

The skin on your back twitches and your hands start to shake. You can still feel the white hot pain of the electric cattle rod’s strike. Back when you were a young trixie, you made the mistake of breaking your first ‘all-night’ client’s nose. The old customer was relentless. He couldn’t get enough. But as is common with age, he’s exhaust himself. He’d hold you still by laying on top of you, pinning your face into the pillow. He’s mass was so immense, you thought you were going to suffocate right then and there. 

The next thing you knew, there was warm blood gushing down your neck. And it wasn’t yours. 

Risky liked to keep his trixes pretty. 

Pretty face. Pretty hair. Pretty bosoms and bottoms. 

But breaking a customer like that was considered a first degree offense. 

The scars on your back were an ugly reminder. 

“I-I-I-I’m so sorry, sir…” you stutter out. You drop painfully to your knees on the cracked tile floor. You try to huff out an explanation, “I-I don’t- what- I was thinking-”

He waves his hand dismissively for your silence. Confusion blends into a solemn disappointment, “Stop. Just stop. Don’t be sorry. Just- forget it. Just- forget it- Y/n…”

Y/N. 

Not Bessie. 

Not darling. 

Y/N. 

You expected that he had already forgotten your name since asking for it.

“Please, don’t be mad at me, Ranger…” you say softly. 

He steps towards you slowly and offers you his hand. 

His skin. Dry. Cracked. Crevices caked with old blood.

You hesitate. 

For a moment, you try to dissect every possible bad outcome from this perhaps deceptive gesture. 

You take a risk. 

You take his hand and he lifts you to your feet. 

Your eyes remained focused on your hands. Interlocked. 

Two entirely harmless appendages. One from you. One from him. 

Touching. For no particular use at all. 

It was an almost disorienting concept when you started to break it down in your mind. 

You slowly started to withdrawal your hand and his touch softened to allow you release. 

You looked up at the drifter. You were mere inches apart. You set your sights on the dark flecks in his deep brown eyes. 

Finally, he breaks the silence, “It was just a little gag. All in good fun. I didn’t mean to startle you…”

He brushed the hair away from your face. He started to lean in. Closing the gap between you two. His face bending towards yours. 

You duck your head down quickly and pivot for the door. 

“Enjoy your bath, Ranger…” you croak behind you as you exit. You felt like you inhaled dust into your lungs. Like you needed to cough a lump out of your throat.

*** 

You returned the bar back to its pristine order. Floor mopped, dishes clean and counters wiped. It was unreal to think that this would be your last day in this futile fight to keep the bar clean. Come tomorrow morning- someone else would have to clean it up. 

Tom comes jogging down the stairs. His hair still wet. A fresh change of clothes from his pack. The clothes he rode into town wearing were hanging to dry in the washroom. This time his shirt says, ‘The Clash’. A true Brit you suppose. 

He smelled fresh and the aroma of his natural scent filled your nostrils with an almost arousing appeal. You shove the feeling down. You have to keep it together. There is still so much uncertainty. You only feel this way as a byproduct of the hope the drifter brings. 

You fix food for the hungry trixies and offer some to Tom. Sand rabbit sandwiches. The same nearly tasteless entree every day. 

He is ravenous and attacks the meal like it’s going to get up and walk away from him. 

You stare out the window in the direction from which he came. 

Would today bring any more visitors?

You touch the ruby pendent on your chest as you vision goes out of focus. You are hopelessly consumed with thoughts of your newly open ended future. 

Part of you constantly chips away at every little spark of hope.

_ You really think your going to kill the Skrimm? You’re just a silly little girl with a pistol. How well do you know this man anyway? He could just be clearing you out of town to sell you himself! Or to use your body until he’s bored then shoot holes in you for practice. That’s if you even get away from this town. You’ve never even been a mile outside! Risky’s never gonna let you leave… There’s just no way you’ll get away from him. He’ll figure out your plan. Strap you down. Shoot the drifter. You’re just never going to get away with it. You’re never gonna be anything, you stupid little girl.  _

The drifter burps alarmingly loud and you are pulled to the present. 

He doesn’t apologize and merely wipes the sauce from his chin. 

He taps the counter impatiently for a refill of beer. “Such lousy service around here!… and I am the only customer!” he says with a mouthful.

Flustered from your daydream you go into autopilot, “I’m so sorry, sir! Another one coming right up!” you say with a practised upbeat cadence. Lips pressed in a manufactured smile.

He stops chewing for a moment to raise an eyebrow at you. You hand him his drink and he says, “You know I was just kidding right?” 

“What?”

“I was just giving you shit… You don’t have to take the piss like that.”

“Oh.” 

He eyes you curiously taking another large bite. 

After a pause he asks, “How are we going to get the key?”

“What key?”

“The key- you know- for the- thing!” He said gesturing to your skirt. You preferred pants but the unforgiving metal made it difficult. 

“Oh… right…” you said, “I think- I think I can convince him to take it off before we leave…”

“How?” He asks curiously taking another large bite. 

You don’t answer.

He thinks you didn’t hear him. 

“How are you going to convince him-“

“Just don’t worry about it- okay?!” You snapped. 

His eyes widened with surprise from your sudden outburst. He puts the pieces together. 

“Oh... so I guess service with more than just a smile…” he mutters. A smirk pulls at his face. He thinks he’s clever. 

“Shut the fuck up...”

“Come around for me, darling,” he asks gesturing for you to come to his side of the bar. 

You oblige only for him to lift up your skirt. You fight the urge to cover yourself and hit him. He examines the belt and the lock. “I don’t think I can pick this one…” he admits. 

“It’s fine,” you say, “I can get him to take it off.”

He looks up into your eyes, the fabric of your skirt still in his hands, “Are you SURE?” Those brown eyes reveal something soft behind that sand-hardened exterior. Something long hidden. Something still to uncover. 

You roll your eyes. You had no time for his naivety. His pity. You’ve done this kind of thing a thousand times before, “Yes,” you groan. 

That soft underbelly of his better stay well hidden. At least if he truly wants to survive in this desert. 

Shady Mike and Hog step in from the hell storm. Hot gusts of sand spray into the lounge. Tom still holds your skirt in his hands, as you both duck away from the blast 

“Are we interrupting a courtship?” Hog coughs up sand before, spreading a toothless grin. 

You scoff at his joke. His intentions are harmless but his routine gets old fast. 

“What the hell is wrong with you two?!” you screech at them, “You could’ve suffocated out there!”

Even though the walk was two buildings over- only two true imbeciles would walk through this storm. 

You pull your skirt from Tom’s grip so that you can pour whiskeys for the two customers. 

Shady Mike pipes in as he plops onto a chair at a cocktail table, “Ya know, little lady, if you weren’t so damn expensive- I’d buy ya! I’d take you right off old Risky’s hands! You’d never have to work here again. Just hand me a whisky after work. Maybe suck my cock now and then... We’d make the cutest little ones too…” The far away look in his eyes becomes glassy. The proposal makes bile crawl up into your throat. But you remind yourself that there was no malice behind his wishes. You recognize where he’s coming from. He just wants a family. He’s too poor to ever buy a viable bride. 

This plague of infertility had its damaging effects on everyone. 

His best bet was to fall in love with a older trixie. Someone Risky would give away for pennies. With the Skrimm out there, slaughtering fathers and stealing mothers- there was no shortage of orphaned little girls. Albeit, the numbers have been dwindling. Even though the Skrimm hasn’t ripped through this town in 8 summers, a caravan of kidnapped orphans travel though town every year. Risky never passes up the opportunity to buy fresh meat. 

It’s an investment. 

***

The howling wind dies down.

Sand no longer pelts relentlessly at the tin roof.

The storm calms down just in time to see the blood red sunset dip behind the horizon. 

Hog and Shady Mike are out the door as the day workers slowly trickle in for dinner, drinks and tricks. Twilight and Ember pass the torch to their more experienced coworkers. Ember was almost ready to start working the night shift. She’s been a nervous wreck about it. You promised you’d be there for her after her first ‘all-nighter’. But now it looks like you won’t be able to keep that promise. Not if you escape with the drifter tonight and not if you die in the process. 

A deep sadness and shame sink into your bones. You can’t describe how guilty you feel abandoning her. 

Abandoning all of them. 

The bar fills up and Risky is suspiciously absent from the crowd.

He’s usually one of the first to walk in and check on his business. 

Certainly, he’d be curious to ask Tom about his stay. See if he would sing Risky’s praises all up and down the deadlands. 

Tom noticeably slows his drinking. Opting for a water and club soda. He’s gotta drive tonight. 

Mark Malice chats you up as he takes to his usual bar stool. He tells about how one of the cows gave birth during the storm. The first successful calf in a while. He thinks its a good omen. 

You smile at the endearing story. You had a soft spot for those lumbering, large creatures. After all, your life wasn’t all that different from theirs. 

Malice’s eyes catch on your chest and you brush it off. 

He’s married man and a good one by this town’s standards… but you can’t expect a man to stop looking…

But then you catch his look of confusion in the corner of your eye. 

You look down at your chest. 

The ruby pendant. 

You forgot you were wearing it. 

You clutched it possessively and Malice meets your eyes. 

“Pretty little token you got there…” he whispers leaning over the counter. “Is a certain drifter making a purchase?”

You shook your head quickly trying to convey that the conversation needed to end immediately. Malice picks up on your nerves and silently slides back upright. 

Your heart was pounding in your chest the closer it got to ‘go time’. You were so afraid to let something slip. For someone to put the pieces together before you could make a break for it.

You really shouldn’t be wearing this necklace. It was too much of a risk. But for some unknown reason, you couldn’t bear to take it off. 

The night wears on with its usual shenanigans but Risky is still absent from the arena of tricks. There was only about an hour left until last call. 

Tom ventured upstairs to collect both of your things. He concealed your pack under his coat as he walked through the lounge. He loaded up the bike. Refueled. Everything was ready to go. It was all just an anxious game of waiting until the bar closed. 

You serve a round of shots to a cocktail table at the front of the establishment. You hear a gruff and familiar voice through the thin wall, “Leavin’ already, Ranger?” It was Risky. 

The next thing you know the door swings open on a creaky hinge and Risky is strong arming Tom over the threshold.

“I wasn’t going to leave quite yet,” Tom replied, “I was just saddling up, so I could enjoy the rest of my stay.” There was a hint of uneasiness in his voice as the large man barreled him back to a bar stool. 

You hastily return to your post behind the counter. You are hungry to hear their conversation. 

Risky’s eyes are trained on the drifter as he nearly breath’s down the foreigner's neck, “Why don’t we get our man a whisky before he leaves!” Risky waves to you. 

You pour the drink. 

“No, no, no, really! I shouldn’t! It’s best I have a clear head for my travels tonight…” Tom says. 

You hand him the drink and his eyes flicker to yours with an almost panic. 

Risky’s meaty paw has yet to leave the back of Tom’s neck since he walked in. 

This Ranger had apparently killed Skrimmers. Why was Risky giving this man the shakes?

“Naw, Ranger- I insist! Have a few on the house! C’mon! Real men like us don’t even feel a single whiskey! What’s the harm?” Risky pressed.

Tom takes a reluctant sip. 

You’ve seen Risky do this a handful of times before. Pressure a Ranger into staying another night by getting him wrecked when he’s about to leave. This old man sure knew how to make a buck. 

You carry on serving other customers while Risky looms over the drifter, no doubt peppering him with questions about your performance and behavior. You could only catch little bits and pieces of the conversation above the din of the lounge. 

You heard Tom say, “-- alright… I guess-- I’ve had better---”

Your heart drops into your stomach. Was that comment about you? Even if it was, it could just be a ruse to get Risky off the scent. And if it was true- it shouldn’t matter, right? It shouldn’t sting. He’s taking you along because you’re a damn good shot. 

Not like he knows that for sure yet…

There it is. That fear and doubt making your skin crawl all over again. 

You start to sweat under the lights of the lounge. The metal contraption slides uncomfortably with the moisture of your skin. 

That’s right. 

You nearly forgot. 

You need the key if you don’t want to be trapped in this thing for eternity. 

Plus, the drifter looks like he could use some reprieve from the old fart’s pressure-cooker questions.

You stroll over to the patron side of the bar. You take a deep breath. 

You force Risky’s attention on you when you step in between him and the drifter and lift your skirt high in the air. 

“Mr. Risky, the metal is giving me those awful rub marks again. I think it’s because my pussy has been dripping wet ever since you walked in and now the metal is all slippery,” you whine. You start to mount one of his thighs and grind against it longingly. 

You can feel the heat for the drifter’s stare at your back. 

Risky’s hands grip your waist tight, “Oh, you silly little girl.... How dumb do you think I am?!”

Your eyes go wide as he continues, “I hid the key far away from this lounge! I’m not unlocking you until this foreigner leaves or pays full price for you! I see the way he’s been eyeing you up…”

You drop your skirt in shock. 

That’s when he notices the necklace. 

Your heart freezes in utter terror. 

He forcefully pushes you off of him and pins your face to the counter. 

He growls, “You know better than to accept gifts! Everything your worth is paid directly to me, remember? I took you in! I fed you! I gave you work! And you think you can take extra payment for yourself?”

You close your eyes ready to be roughed up. 

That’s when you hear the satisfying smack of knuckles against skull. 

Risky’s grip left your body and you snap upright to see that Tom clocked him. 

Risky is splayed in confusion on the floor. Blood trickles from his eyes socket. 

He wipes some blood off his cheek before it spills into the corners of his mouth as he spreads a devilish smile.

Risky jumps to his feet and eyes you. 

Fear strikes your heart. He’ll punish the guest by torturing you. 

Tom jumps in front of you and pushes Risky back with a shove to his chest, “As long as I’m alive, you will not touch her,” Tom booms. 

“Well- there Ranger- that settles it then! Looks like you and I are gonna have a little quick draw!” Risky challenges. 

The bar erupts in shouts and calls. Chanting begins. That settles it then. 

A quick draw will determine your fate. 

If Risky wins, you can expect the cattle rod tonight and kiss goodbye any chance of leaving this town without a purchase.. 

If the drifter wins, you might be able to escape. 

The bar crowds around the windows as Risky and Tom take to the street. 

You’ve seen the drifter shoot once before. He’s a decent shot. 

But you’ve seen for certain how fast Risky can draw. He’s been one of the best shots in the Protectorates for years. 

Not only that. 

But you know how Risky likes to play. 

He’s a cheater. 

If Tom plays fair- he won’t stand a chance. 

The last time you say Risky at a standoff he shot the man dead at the count of two. 

You had no time to think. No time to warn Tom as the crowd swallowed the distance between you two. 

You couldn’t let this be his fate. 

But more importantly- you couldn’t let this be YOUR fate. 

That’s when you were struck with an idea.

You grabbed the pistol from behind the counter and sprinted up the stairs. The trixies were covering their mouths in shock and horror but they moved swiftly out of your way as you took to the hatch that doubled as a ladder to the roof. You scrambled up as quickly as you could. You crawled on your belly until you reached the cover of the giant upright sign for “Risky’s Saloon and Lounge”. 

You were relieved to see that it wasn’t too late yet. The men had just walked ten paces to their marks. 

Risky started to call out the rules which you could only faintly hear over the roaring wind and the blood rushing in your ears. 

Both men’s fingers dance anxiously across the handle of their weapons.

“DRAW ON THE COUNT OF THREE!” Risky shouts. 

Your hand shakes as you take aim towards your Mad Master.

You’ve never shot anyone before. Only bottles and tumbleweeds. 

“ONE!” he shouts. 

Urgency and adrenaline take over. A cool chill descends on your body as you pull the trigger. 

B O O M.

Blood blooms like a rose from Risky’s chest. 

The old bastard drops. 

He’s dead before he hits the sand.

Tom stumbles back in disbelief. Still clutching the pistol at his side. He starts to scan the rooftops for the answer. You stand up and his eyes lock on yours as a smile and relief wash over his face in the dim streetlight. 

“Well- would you look at that!” he gasps for air, “You are a better shot than me!” 

Suddenly, you hear a rupture in the building beneath you. 

A mob of disorder in an infancy state. 

Tom’s face melts into concern, “We need to leave- NOW!” he shouts. 

You jump over the sign, onto the roof of the porch. From there you jump into a roll on a softer patch of sand. 

You get up and spot the ruckus that takes place in the bar. Ranger’s grab for bottles and cash like mad. 

Tom throws you his helmet and you catch it, fastening it without a second thought. You both throw on your packs and mount Tom’s bike. 

The engine roars to life. 

Tom fixes his bandana over his mouth. 

You hold onto his waist tight. 

Sand sputters as the bike takes off. 

Tom weaves around Risky’s limp body and you get one last look at your “caretaker”. 

You know right then and there that the image of his crumpled body will never leave your mind. You will forever be haunted by his inanimate form. 

You glance behind, as the only place you ever knew fades into the distance. 

Your whole world up to this point is now just a blinking light on the horizon. 

For reasons you can’t quite put your finger on- you begin to cry. At first, just tears, but then you started to whimper and from there a full fledged wail pressed forth. You wrapped your arms tightly around the foreigner. Burying your face into his shoulder. 

He momentarily takes a hand off the handle bars to give yours a reassuring squeeze. 

All he says is...

“I know.” 


End file.
